To be nowhere
But in the moment.
This moment.
Is exactly where you need to be.
Where you’re needed.
4
Tag Archives: musings
Sunday Column: Sisters
On Mondays Little Sister calls me to see what I’m doing on Friday.
Or Saturday.
Or Sunday.
My little sister is a planner and she likes to know well in advance that she’ll have something to look forward to at the end of a long week teaching kindergartners to hola hoop in gym class.
So she might come over to help move cows, or have a margarita, to gorge on popcorn and watch a chick flick, play guitar or take a walk in the trees with our cameras.
Or we might go to town and dance to a band. Plan our next trip, make a big meal or just hang out in the kitchen catching up and watching funny videos of cats on YouTube.
Like me, Little Sister is easily amused.
When I moved back to the ranch for the first time after we got married seven years ago, Little Sister was still in high school, getting ready to graduate and make her way in the world. I got to go to her volleyball games, see her win Homecoming Queen, take pictures of her and her prom date and help at her graduation party.
When she left home I would go and visit her on the other side of the state and we would hang out at her favorite restaurants, catch her favorite bands, shop for clothes we couldn’t afford (while convincing one another that each purchase was an investment), go to movies and just be sisters.
Then I would head back to wherever it was I was living at the time and miss her face.
Well, now I don’t have to miss her face anymore. The changes happening in our Little Boomtown have made our once small town a enticing place to come back to work. It happened with Big Sister and now it happened with Little Sister and so, despite the odds, here we are, all together in a 30 miles radius, just close enough to borrow those shoes I helped her pick out, pick up Little Man for the weekend, swing by mom’s store with coffee and come over with guacamole and chips and be the kind of friends sisters were meant to be after they grow up and stop fighting so much.
I try to explain what it means to me to be close enough to these sisters of mine to watch them accomplish goals, fall in love, raise a family and be a close knit part of our own again.
I try to explain…
Coming Home: Rejoicing as little sister returns home
by Jessie Veeder
10/6/13
Fargo Forum
www.inforum.com
Layers.
There’s a moment between summer and deep autumn at the ranch that’s so good at being glorious that it actually makes us all believe we could last forever under a sky that’s bright blue and crisp and warm and just the right amount of breezy all at the same time.
We’re easily swayed to forget up here, you know, about the drama that is our seasons. I imagine it’s a coping mechanism we develop that gets the crazy stoic people here through -40 degree temperature snaps.
It’s forgetting that gets us through, but it’s remembering too. The combination is an art form.
Because at -40 degrees we remember that one-day it will be sunny and 75.
And when it’s sunny, 118 degrees and 100% humidity and there’s not a lake in sight, we remember that -40 degrees and somehow find a way to be grateful for it all.
Yes we keep taking off layers and putting them on again until we make ourselves the perfect temperature.
Funny then how we’re not really good at giving the in-between moments the credit they’re due around here. We usually grab them up and soak them in just enough to get some work done on a horse, paint the house, wash the car or get the yard cleaned up for winter.
Because we’re taught up here to use those perfect weather moments to prepare us for the not so perfect ones that are coming.
That’s why fall, though a romantic season for some, gives me a little lump in my throat that tastes a lot like dread and mild panic.
Because while the pumpkins are nice and the apple cider tastes good enough, I can’t help but think that autumn is like the nice friend who slowly walks over to your lunch table with the news that your boyfriend doesn’t want to go out with you anymore.
And my boyfriend is summer. And when he’s gone, I’m stuck with the long and drawn out void that is winter–with a little splash of Christmas, a hint of a sledding party and a couple shots of schnapps to get me through the break-up.
Hear what I’m saying?
But the change is beautiful. I can’t help but marvel at it really, no matter its underlying plot to dry up the leaves and strip them from their branches and jump start my craving for carbohydrates and heavy whipping cream in everything.
So I decided to give it the credit it was due yesterday and I took a break from the office chair intent on marveling at some leaves, collecting some acorns and walking the trails the cattle and deer had cut through the trees during the heat of summer.
I will never call this moment a season, it’s too fleeting and foreboding for that, but I will reach out and touch those golden leaves and call it a sort of magic.
The kind that only nature can perform, not only on those leaves, but on the hair on a horse’s back, the fat on the calf, the trickling creek bed, the tall dry grasses, used up flowers and a woman like me.
Yes, I’m turning too. My skin is lightening. My hunger unsuppressed. My eyelids heavy when the sun sinks below the hill much earlier than my bedtime.
My pants a little tighter with the promise of colder weather.
Ok. I’ve been reminded. Summer–a month of electric thunderstorms and endless days, sunshine that heats up my skin and makes me feel young and in love with a world that can be so colorful– is over.
And so I’m thankful for the moment in these trees to be reminded that I have a little time yet, but I best be gathering those acorns.
And pulling on my layers.
A really scary story.
It was a low and agonizing moan, a sort of desperate sound that no one wants to hear, especially at six in the morning when it should be dark and quiet in the loft where I had twenty-more-minutes before I had to get up.
Twenty more minutes and there it was again. It was coming from the kitchen.
“Ohhhh, noooooaaa. Noooooaaa. Lord. Why? Whhhhyyy?”
It was my husband. The only other living thing in this house that can form words and the only other living thing in this house that would attempt to stand upright and form them in the hour before the sun arrives.
I’d never heard this sound before. I searched my sleepy mind for what could possibly be wrong:
An work disaster email?
A giant dog poop?
A dishwasher/washing machine/sink explosion?
Maybe we left a door open and that damn squirrel set up shop in our cupboards? Or a turkey. A turkey could have gotten in. They’ve been knocking on our door all month.
Or an alien. Never rule out the aliens.
Or a robber. We were sleeping pretty hard up there, I mean, maybe we didn’t hear him.
Maybe he’s still down there.
Oh Lord, I haven’t heard another moan for a good three minutes. I could have a hostage situation on my hands.
Where’s the phone?
Where are my pants?
Where’s that baseball bat I don’t own?
I swung my legs over the bed and snuck toward the door of the bedroom, peeking my head out and over the loft to quietly assess the situation.
What I discovered was worse than anything I could have conjured up.
No. We weren’t being robbed. There was no intruder, furry or feathered or otherwise.
Nothing was flooding or exploding or pooping.
No. No. No. No.
Husband.
Broke.
The.
Coffee. Pot.
The. coffee. pot. was. broken.
Thecoffeepotwasbroken!!!
Cracked.
Leaking.
Smashed.
B.R.O.K.E.N
BROKEN!
BRRROOOKEEENNNN!!!!!
I heard another groan. A similar low, agonizing growl, but this time it was coming from a wild haired, pants-less woman leaning over the edge of the staircase clutching her heart with the realization that she had just become powerless against the perils of early morning at the ranch while staring at a horrified man in middle of his own stunning realization.
We looked at each other, my mouth agape and his forming the silent, whimpering words “I’m sorry. I’m so. so. sorry.”
At that moment we would have taken the alien.
You think I’m over-exaggerating. You say to me, no big deal. Just grab some coffee from a gas station or a coffee shop on your way to work and pick up a new pot on your way home. You’ll make it.
But I tell you you don’t understand.
The only thing worse than the absence of coffee in the wee and vulnerable morning hours at the ranch is the absence of toilet paper in the middle of a vulnerable night. You know what I’m saying?
Because unless we want to disturb our neighbors’ early morning ritual, seriously, the closest cup of coffee is twenty-five miles away.
TWENTY-FIVE MILES!
That means we have to drive, groggy and impaired behind oil trucks, service pickups, moms in SUVs and school busses carrying precious cargo before we even had the chance to properly fuel our veins. And once we finally arrive at a gas station or a coffee shop we have to stand in line behind fifteen people who are buying gas or muffins or beef jerky or aspirin or TEA FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! WHO DRINKS TEA? WHAT’S EVEN IN TEA? LEAVES? SOGGY HERBS? I DON’T GET IT! TEA IS A NON-ESSENTAIL ITEM! THESE ARE NON-ESSENTIAL ITEMS!
NON. ESSENTIAL.
COFFEE DRINKERS UNITE! IT’S 7:30 AM AND WE HAVEN’T HAD A SIP.
IT’S 7:30 AM–WE’RE MOVING TO THE FRONT OF THE LINE!!!
See what I’m saying.
Without coffee the two of us become an environmental hazard.
It really was serious. But it wasn’t all my careless husband’s fault. I should have been prepared. When you live out here with the wild turkeys you shouldn’t leave yourself vulnerable to these disasters.
Before the fire hit the little ranch house and we moved to the new place I had three additional coffee sources on hand to sustain us through power outages, broken or faulty equipment and carelessness. No electricity? It’s fine, we have a propane stove and a camp percolator. Broken coffee pot? No big deal, there’s an extra downstairs.
Want to get fancy with the beans? Great! Let’s use the french press!
We were safe then. We were secure.
Then there was a fire and we got distracted with things like, you know, building shelter for our bodies and our earthly possessions, and some important things fell by the wayside.
Important things like backup coffee pots.
How could I be so negligent? How could I forget about the essentials? How could I be so ill prepared?
It doesn’t matter now. My lesson’s learned. Never again will I be left standing sleepy-eyed, pants-less and horrified in my own home.
Never again will I put the lives of the innocent children in danger.
Never again will I allow a simple mistake like the slip of a hand leave me stranded and powerless in the face of an early morning and long work day.
Fed-Ex lady, I hope it doesn’t snow next week, because there’s going to be some big shipments coming in.
Because today I’m clearing out a space in the basement and Googling “Coffee Pots,” and, well, I guess I’ll be seeing you soon.
Peace, Love and, you guessed it, Coffee,
Jessie
Heroes Proved
I’ve been writing music since I was a little girl. Some of it has escaped the walls that held me at the time, others have been locked up, unfinished, never ready to be played for anyone.
I have ideas. I try to show you. I try to tell it as I see it, or maybe as a stranger might. I try to share a little piece of me and my surroundings with whoever wants to listen.
I don’t always know what it is that I want to say.
Sometimes, if I’m lucky, the song knows better.
When I was in college touring the midwest in my Chevey Lumina, I wrote a song called “Heroes Proved.” It was the middle of winter in Northern North Dakota and I was cold. I was on the road and alone a lot. I missed home, the smell of the sage and horse hair, black cows and the way the grass bends in the breeze.
I missed the neighbors and how they would come and visit on Sunday and linger over coffee.
And I missed cowboys, the ones I was convinced no longer existed in the world, except the few I left behind, scattered and lonely on the quiet scoria road.
I didn’t know if I would ever get back to that place for good.
I didn’t know if that place even existed anymore.
I didn’t know anything.
“Heroes Proved” was my way of asking the world to slow down. I was desperate for it, but in a completely different way then I am now.
Now that I’m home and never leaving.
Now that I’m home and watching the world drive by–rushing, digging, kicking up dust on the way to meet the bottom line.
At 20 years old I couldn’t see the future. At 20 years old what I was writing felt so personal and disconnected from my peers. At 20 years old I couldn’t have known the progress waiting to barrel down that dusty road toward my family’s ranch, bringing me and the world with it.
“Heroes Proved” hasn’t been on my set list for years. I moved it out of the way to make room for new words and ideas.
I never considered that some of my songs might have become more relevant to me over time.
This is one.
“I think what you notice most when you haven’t been home in a while
is how much the trees have grown around your memories.”
― Mitch Albom, For One More Day
Sunday Column: When summer’s over
The hay is baled up and waiting to be moved out of the fields.
he hot sun is starting to turn the leaves on the trees a little bit lighter.
The cattails are bending and swaying in the warm breeze.
The water in the stock damns is getting low and covered in moss.
The tomatoes are ripe.
The school busses are kicking up dust on the back roads.
The days are getting shorter.
Coming Home: Summer can’t last as life goes on
By Jessie Veeder
9/1/13
Fargo Forum
www.inforum.com
Summer’s almost over.
What you get when I’m stuck in the house…
Happy Friday to you. I hope you get off work early and have plans to sip cold drink on a summery deck somewhere.
I’m spending mine under a blanket on my cozy couch dosed up on pain pills after partaking in a little surgery (nothing major…and no, not a nose job) yesterday.
Yes, full disclosure, I’m on drugs.
Word is I’ll be feeling better tomorrow. That’s what I’m telling myself anyway as I’ve been enduring daytime television programming and small attempts at sounding coherent on work calls I decided to return since I am home and not supposed to go anywhere.
And now for your lesson of the day: you shouldn’t return work calls when you’re on hyrdocodone.
You probably shouldn’t respond to emails either. Or write a blog.
But I could be worse. I could be Little Sister. She got her wisdom teeth removed on Wednesday.
She looks like a chipmunk and can’t eat Doritos.
So there’s that.
At least I can eat Doritos. If we had Doritos.
I could really go for some Doritos…
Yup, we’re a pathetic lot out here at the ranch. But while we’ve been resting Husband and Little Sister’s man have been working on putting up the deck in time for my birthday party because, besides world peace, my one birthday wish is that I will be able to celebrate 30 by toasting to old age with tequila on the beautiful deck attached to our house.
And my husband, bless his handyman soul, is doing what he can.
I’ll keep you posted.
But for now, in honor of Friday, mandatory couch time and my drug induced loss for words, I would like to give you a little update on what’s been going on around the old homestead these days.
To sum it up, it’s August and it’s been raining, which is not common for this month. Our ranch missed the recent devastating hail storm that rolled in across the country side, wiping out large wheat fields and leaving farmers to shake their heads at the loss. We are shaking ours at the thought.
The cows have been finding a new hole in the fence to crawl through every day because the grass is apparently greener.
The horses are sleek and are spending the warm days swishing their tails, nodding their heads and running from the flies,
the chokecherries are ripe, the plums will soon follow,
the clover is tall, the late summer wildflowers are in bloom,
the oil is still pumping,
The badlands are at their best,
LIttle Man keeps growing up,
the dogs have decided it’s their duty to protect us from the squirrels in the trees, so that’s why they never stop barking if you’re wondering…
The dragonflies are back for their fill of mosquitos. So are the bats. And we don’t mind at all.
The thunderheads roll in at night,
and the sunsets are spectacular.
There’s even been some rainbow sightings.
And we’re pretty happy around here, even when we’re not on the painkillers…
So you should come for a visit. You can stay in the cabin. That came this month too.
And God willing, in a week I’ll have a deck and I’ll pour you a cold one and we can cheers to good friends and good weather and good health.
But for a little while, I’ll be here, under this blanket, eating Doritos and watching that deck go up from the cool side of the window…
Peace, Love and pain medication,
Jessie
Howling.
Husband’s gramma is in the hospital a few towns away. Yesterday we went to visit her.
I don’t normally talk about things like this, but I think I should because there are people in our life that we just adore and maybe we don’t tell them as much as we should.
And there are things in this life that just hurt too bad and maybe we don’t just let them hurt like we should.
And there are times you just need to sit with somebody when they are probably going to be ok, I mean, you’re optomistic, but nobody can make any promises and all you can say is, “Oh, good to see you. You are strong. We love you. Everything’s going to be alright.”
So that’s what Husband and I did yesterday. We went to say “Hello, good to see you, we love you,” to Gramma L., a spunky, straight-up lady who has a life story I always promised myself I’d get out of her one day.
She’s in the hospital. She’s going to be ok. There’s never a guarantee, but I believe it.
I adore her. I adore how she gets right to it. I adore how she can always find the best bargain. I adore her beautiful collection of vintage pins and the cap she always wears camping with us in the summer. I like how she writes thank-you and birthday notes and makes sure to mention she got the card on sale.
I adore her spirit.
I’ve probably never told her.
So we sat with her and talked to her about the weather and the chokecherries coming.
We talked about wood ticks and Juneberry pie. We talked about how technology is moving too fast and how she used to ride a sleigh to school with her feet on the hot coals. We talked about the house and how she’ll come and see it when she feels better.
We ordered her lunch and helped her eat it and worried when she only had a few bites.
We visited with family and caught up and got in the car and drove the three hours back to the ranch the two of us sort of quiet about it all.
And when we got home it was raining a little, but the sun was shining and so there was a faint rainbow over the hill outside the house, sneaking up on us while we were warming up some soup for a late supper.
The rainbow turned to clouds and the clouds to the most beautiful pink sunset. Everything was fresh and washed from the rain. I pulled on my boots and climbed the hill to watch the sun go down.
And while I walked I remembered what Gramma L., said about family.
Thank God for family. Thank God they love me. Thank God they come to visit. I have a lot of prayers.
I got to the top of the hill and felt a little tug of loneliness that sort of bloomed into that feeling you get when something exciting is about to happen. I imagined myself taking this walk with my child one day. A walk to go watch the sunset.
I think that would be a nice thing to do with a daughter or son.
I sat up there and watched then, I watched the sun turn the clouds orange and pink and blue and then disappear below the horizon to turn things gray.
All days end. But I loved this one and how it reminded me to slow down as it went out in a beautiful show.
To breathe.
To just love someone.
Then I remembered what Gramma L. said as we were leaving.
She told us to go and have fun. That’s what makes life great.
So I lifted my head and howled at the sky, knowing that the dogs would join in and that would make me laugh.
And it did.
The windows were open at the house below. I knew Husband could hear us.
I knew he would be laughing too.
Then I sent a little prayer up for Gramma L. and made my way inside before dark.
A birthday month moment.
Well party people, we’re officially the second day into my birthday month. Flip your calendars to the photo that features a sunflower or a golden wheat field. It’s August.
It’s August and in 23 days I will no longer be allowed to use the excuse “well, that was in my 20s…” for any and every one of my poor choices.
i.e.: The pug…
In 23 days I will seriously consider just letting my hair go gray, pour myself a glass of tequila and wave at 29 as it slips on out the back door and out into the home pasture, taking my youth with it as it goes on its merry way.
Goodbye youth. Perhaps it was always meant to be…
Bwahhhhh…..
So, yes, it’s official, I couldn’t stay 26 forever.
26 was my ideal age. Have I told you that? I don’t even know what I was doing then, probably broke in Missoula, MT climbing a mountain or contemplating just letting my hair turn to dreadlocks on its own. I thought 26 was good because I was old enough to have finished school, found someone who would marry me and continue my quest for a respectable job, but young enough that if none of those things worked out there would still be time.
I could take that trip to Europe or cross the country in an old Winnebego. There was no rush to settle down.
I was 26. I could pierce my nose and it would be cool. Because I was 26 and I was still young.
But turns out 26 turns to 27 and then 28 and pretty soon you’re on the back side of your twenties knee-deep in a complete home renovation project that keeps you from the buying that Winnebego and following dots on the map.
And you forgot to get your nose pierced.
I have 23 days. I could still do it.
But seriously folks. I’ve got 23 days before I’m 30 and I’m feeling a little wistful about the whole thing. I mean, I have to be honest, these last ten to twelve years of adulthood have been pretty great. I can’t complain. I’ve spent them traveling the country singing for my supper, dating and marrying my high school crush,
testing out different towns and different jobs, buying concert tickets, planning ski trips, raising two misfits dogs, updating my resume, tiling bathrooms, painting new bedrooms, writing my story and singing it out loud and moving all my earthly and hand-me-down possessions six times in six years.
I’ve learned what it takes to be married. I’ve learned what it feels like to be truly disappointed and truly happy. I’ve killed pretty much all of my house plants.
I’ve put on a million miles, grew a few muscles and found my way home.
And now here I am, looking out the window of our new house, our forever home, at a dirt pile that will someday be a lawn and I’m a little bit exhausted, a little bit satisfied, and little bit nervous, a little bit hungry (I’m always a little bit hungry) and a little like, oh, I don’t know what I’m doing…except I think I know exactly what I’m doing. I think…
My friends tell me my thirties will be the best years. They say you know who you are. They say you’re settled in. They say you’re more sure. More confident.
Older.
I guess I’ll find out.
Lately I’ve been staying up late, the windows open to the sounds of a stray truck rolling by on the pink road, the breeze pushing through the trees, the howl of a coyote. In that time when the house is quiet and so is the world, I allow myself the sense to feel that tightening lump in my chest, the one that makes you wonder what the hell you’re doing out here, wonder if you’re cut out for it all, wonder how long you have, what you’re missing, wonder what’s next, wishing for more time to think, to do, to sleep…
And then I close my eyes and listen to the sound of my husband’s breathing and convince myself to think about it all tomorrow in the light of day. Because the night is for sleeping and turning you one day older.
One day wiser.
But here’s the thing. I joke about turning another year older, but the truth is I’ve never been afraid of aging. I’ve always admired the women who let their hair grow long and gray, the ones who wear their clothes the way they like and how to change a tire, change a diaper and change the world.
I’ve always looked forward to becoming one of those women.
I remember being a little girl who couldn’t sleep. I would close my eyes and try to visualize what I might look like when I got older. Would my butt get big? Would I cut my hair short? Would I get my nails done on Saturday?
And then I would busy my imagination with making plans for my life, to be a veterinarian, then maybe a teacher, a wilderness woman, a horse trainer, a writer or maybe just a singer…like I don’t have to be famous or anything, just make enough money to sing for a living…
I would marry a handsome boy with brown hair and strong arms and we would ride horses and live in a cabin.
I would have a garden and a baby and dramatic adventures that always turned out ok in the end.
I wonder what that girl would think of us now, married with no baby and no garden in a house we make dirty with sawdust on the weekends and sweep up a little on Monday.
We always hated to sweep.
And we always hated the way the frizz of our curls escaped our ponytail. I think she’d be happy to know my hair is long.
Think she’d be glad that I married this boy.
And that I’m still singing, just enough to make a little bit of a living…that’s alright…
Yes, I think she’d be glad there’s still so much I want to do. She’d understand that’s those thoughts, the thoughts of what I want to be, are the same ones that keep me up late while I plan on growing up.
I think she’d tell me it’s gonna be fun…
Sunday Column: Some days the Bakken ain’t so Rockin’
On Friday evening we took a ride through the east pasture checking cows. The sky turned from blue to pink in front of our eyes and a small storm pushed through.We caught the breeze but didn’t get caught in the rain.
We caught the juneberries and the raspberries before the birds.
We caught Pops over the hill filling his mouth and his pocket and we were caught in one of the greatest things about living on this place.
Today I will attempt Juneberry pie because Husband packed his saddlebags and the breeze is blowing nice through the kitchen windows and it’s Sunday.
This is the kind of life I like to talk about. The kind of things I moved back here for. Sunsets and wildflowers and the sleek back of horses and fat happy cattle and Sundays and family.
These are all part of my reality.
But so is the dust kicked up by trucks tending to the oil well a mile down the road and the slick mud they make when it rains.
Sometimes I get stuck on my way out of this place.
Sometimes my car breaks down and so does our pickup on the way to get it all fixed. Sometimes the price of progress means you won’t possibly make it to your appointment on time.
And sometimes, after all that, one of those big trucks kicks up a big rock and you get another big chip to add to the 27 you already have in your windshield.
Sometimes I use my middle finger and think, hell, it’d be easier to just ride my horse out of here.
Sometimes it rains like hell and I’m reminded that I’m not perfect and neither is this place.
Sunday Column: Some days the Bakken ain’t so rockin’
By Jessie Veeder
7/21/13
Fargo Forum
I’m not perfect and neither is this place.
